Vanity and Beauty
by oh-cripe-my-fish
Summary: England wonders when he lost his mind to be thinking such nice things about his longtime adversary. FrUk.


_Disclaimer: Hetalia is, surprisingly, not mine. I know, I'm shocked too._

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 **1• Vain - to have an excessively high opinion of and investment in oneself's own appearance, ability and worth, or to produce no results, for actions to be useless.**  
 **2• Beautiful - a combination of qualities, such as shape, colour, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses, especially the sight.**

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If Arthur had to say aloud the first word that came to mind when he thought of Francis, he wouldn't. It would be uncharacteristic of him to say something so nice of the Frenchman. Enemies are not prone to chivalry, And Arthur refused to be an exception.

 _Beautiful_ is what he thinks as Francis takes a seat beside him, humming a French tune to himself, coffee in hand. He takes a small sip, sets the cup down, pulls paperwork from his expensive beige satchel and leans over it, ink pen in his left hand as he makes small curly notes on the typed up document for clarification later. Francis' left handedness is one of Arthur's biggest pet peeves, Arthur being right handed himself, for when they're sitting close enough to brush elbows, Francis makes sure they certainly do, and even the smallest brush of contact outside of physically fighting is enough to make England lose his train of thought to the fantasies and 'what if's' that plague him before he sleeps at night, the ones he tries not to remember in the light of day, yet can't seem to forget.

They haven't made eye contact yet, but when they do, Arthur's awe and admiration will surely be displaced with inklings of annoyance. He'll forget his own sentimental thoughts and yearning as they devolve into a brawl, but for now in what was to be a short lived peace and quiet between them, Francis is _beautiful,_ and in every way. Hair silken and effortlessly wavy, skin honeyed ever-so-slightly from the current sunny weather in Paris, beard and eyebrows tended to perfection, cheekbones prominent and jaw sharp. Arthur tries his upmost to dislike him and his sleek cream Burberry suit, his shined to perfection KG leather derby shoes, his warm expressive voice and the excessive amount of Chanel cologne he's wearing, but it's getting harder and harder these days. He reminds himself that everything about Francis and what he does is in excess as if that would remind Arthur of his lifelong hatred for the man- Francis' spending habits, his style, his personality, his flirting, the amount of cologne he wears - all too much, overwhelming even, for the Englishman. There's a meter and a half between their chairs, but Arthur is overwhelmed by Francis' person already. It's impossible to forget he's there when he smells do good, sounds so good.

 _Looks so good..._

 _"_ I usually adore having your undivided attention Angleterre, but can you stop scowling my way s'il vous plait? It's very distracting."

Amused cobalt connected with widening emerald. Eventually, Arthur gets to grips with his alarm and his scowl deepens. He didn't mean to stare, the last thing he wanted was to be caught staring. Lifting his teacup to his lips, Arthur takes a slow, cool sip.

 _"_ My sincerest apologies Frog, I just can't seem to get over how ridiculous you look today." He replies, discretely tonguing unsweetened tea from the corner of his mouth as Francis swivels around in his chair to face him, eyeing the Englishman from head to toe properly as he props an ankle on his knee, sitting back in the chair and plucking his coffee from the table, paperwork abandoned.

Francis is smiling like he's already prevailed. _"_ Says the man who evidently chose his sweater vest when he was clearly on drugs. Did you have a nice trip?" Francis retaliates, smirk only getting bigger.

Arthur bristles, and so it begins, morning tea going cold and coffee being spilled as the two try their very best to offend the other as effectively as possible, and amongst insults regarding vanity and senses of style, none of them are taken to heart, and it seems that for all their arguing, Arthur's attempts to despise France are all in vain.

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 **End notes:** Just a tiny drabble I did while trying to write more, originally it was from an longer piece where I'd aimed to write a small segment of FrUk with a single word, mainly adjectives, as inspiration for approx 20 words, but then I exported a few segments out to separate fics I'm working on before starting a Rusame fic because I can't devote myself to one thing... man, I've got to work on these commitment issues. I might add to this fic later at some point, I really want to write Arthur coming to terms with his feelings and confessing them.

Thank you for reading and au revoir~


End file.
